Again the oddest people, known and unknown, began to overflow10 the small but elegant abode11 of Don Vittorio, and as winter declined to spring, the people arrived in increasing numbers and besieged12 Vittorio at home. They waited for him at the door and went to look for him in the parloir of his club, where he lunched and dined; they ran everywhere he was wont13 to repair. Each morning and evening bundles of letters arrived for him, some of which were registered and insured to the value of a thousand and two thousand lire. One day, in fact, he had a letter with a declared value of five thousand lire. And all, intimate and ordinary friends, old and new acquaintances, strangers and unknown, wrote him letters, sent him enclosures, forwarded him documents, attracted by the immense fortune he was about to possess in marrying Mabel Clarke with a dowry of fifty millions—and some said a hundred millions. All desired and wished, all asked from him, with some excuse or other, with one pretext14 or another, a little part, a big part, a huge part of this fortune which was not yet his, but which would be his within six, four, or two months.
One sought a loan on his return from the honeymoon15, a friendly loan, nothing else, through the ties of old affection, giving no hint as to the date or manner of repayment16; someone asked a serious loan with splendid guarantees and first mortgages; another wished to sell him the four horses of his stage-coach; another wished to give up to him his kennels17, another a villa18, a castle, a palace, a property, another wished him to redeem19 from the Government an island in the Tyrrhennian Sea to go hunting there; while another wished him to acquire a yacht of two thousand tons.
Every day to all this were added the visits of vendors20 of jewels, of linen21, of fashions for men and women, of fine wines and liqueurs, wanting him to buy from them for fabulous22 sums, offering all the credit possible, to be paid for a year after the marriage, so that they might have the honour of being his purveyors. To their visits and letters were added those of other strange beings, small and great inventors who asked much money to relinquish24 their inventions; discoverers of wonderful secrets which they would reveal for a consideration; girls who asked for a dowry to enable them to marry; singers who asked to be maintained at the Conservatoire for two or three years, the time that was necessary to become rivals of Caruso; widows with six sons who wished to lodge25 three or four with him; people out of employment who would like to follow him to America when he went to marry; other unemployed26 who asked for letters of introduction to John Clarke; adventurers who compared themselves with him and wanted to know how he had managed to please a girl with fifty millions; seamstresses who asked for a sewing-machine; students who wanted him to pay their university fees. All this was done in fantastic alternation, sometimes honest, sometimes false, but often grotesque27 and disgusting; for the saraband was conducted on a single note—money, which it is true he had not yet, as nearly everyone knew that he was poor, but that within six months or less he would have an immense fortune. In fact, some of the more cynical28 and shameless believed that he already had money, as if Mabel Clarke's millions, or million, or half a million, had already reached him as a present from the future father and mother-in-law, or from his fiancée herself. Indeed, an old mistress of a month asked for three thousand francs which she said would be of immediate29 use to her and which he could surely give her since he had so much money from America: in exchange she offered him some love letters which he had written her, threatening on the other hand to send them to his fiancée in America. He who had registered his letter to the value of five thousand lire sent him a copy of a bill of exchange of his father's, of thirty years ago, a bill which Don Giorgio Lante had never paid; and, as usual, the correspondent threatened a great scandal. During the first two months this strange assault at home, at the club, in the streets, in drawing-rooms, in fact everywhere he went, this curious assault of avarice30 and greed interested and amused him. He was supremely31 happy in those early days. He had taken leave of Mabel, certain of her troth; Annie Clarke, the silent idol32, had smiled on him benevolently33 from the deck of the liner, and he was sure that John Clarke would give him his daughter. At that time he received gracious letters—a little brief it is true—from Mabel, and still more often cablegrams—a form she preferred—of three or four words in English, always very affectionate: and he replied at once. He was supremely happy!
The human comedy, the human farce34 which bustled35, not around him, but around the money he was going to possess, was at bottom somewhat flattering. He enjoyed all the pleasures of vanity which an enormously rich man can have, although still poor. His nature was simple and frank, his heart was loyal. He loved Mabel ardently37 and enthusiastically; but the sense of power which he had for a short time came pleasantly to him. Therefore he was polite to all his morning and evening aggressors; he refused no one a hearing; he never said no. Only with a courteous38 smile he postponed39 to later any decision, till after the marriage or the honeymoon. Some sought for a bond or a promise in writing; amiably40 and firmly he refused, without allowing him who was so persistent41 to lose all hope. Vittorio Lante was never impatient with all those who asked of him from fifty lire to five hundred thousand, sometimes smiling and laughing as he kept the most eccentric letters to laugh at them with Mabel in America, when they should have some moments of leisure. In these annoyances42 of wealth there was a hidden pleasure, of which for some time he felt the impressions keenly.
Then a cablegram of the 3rd of December, from New York, told him that John Clarke had consented. Intoxicated43 with joy he telegraphed to Mabel, to Annie, even to John Clarke, and left at once for Terni, to announce the glad tidings to his noble and gentle mother. Still soon some shadows began to spread themselves over his life; light shadows at first and then darker. Like lightning the news of the betrothal44 of the great American millionairess with a young Roman prince had been spread and printed everywhere in all the European newspapers, and gradually there had begun witty45 and slightly pungent46 comments, then rather cutting remarks. Whoever sent the French, German, and English papers to him at Terni, to the Palazzo Lante, which first congratulated him ironically and afterwards, gradually complicating48 the news and redoubling the echoes, treated him as a broken noble of extinct heraldry, as a dowry-hunter, a seller of titles; whoever sent these witty, impertinent, often directly libellous papers had marked in red and blue, with marks of exclamation49, the more trenchant50 remarks. Implacably, while he was away from Rome, away from every great centre, in the solitude51 of his ancient palace—with what sarcasm52 the ruin of this palace had been described in the papers and the necessity for restoring it with Papa Clarke's money!—he received whole packets of these papers and in his morbid53 curiosity and offended feelings he opened all, devouring54 them with his eyes, and read them through, to become filled with anger and bitterness.
But if a tender letter from Mabel reached him at Terni, if she replied with a tender expression to a dispatch of his, his anger calmed and his bitterness melted. His mother saw him pass from one expression to another, but she was unwilling55 to inquire too closely. With a tender smile and gentle glance she asked him simply:
"Does Mabel still love you?"
"Always, mamma," he replied, trembling with emotion at the recollection of the beautiful, fresh girl.
But new papers arrived and again his mind was disturbed with anger and sorrow. He would have liked to reply to them all, with denials, with violent words, with actions against those people of bad faith, against the villains56 who had published the news, who had printed the articles and paragraphs full of gall58: he would have liked to have picked a quarrel with the paper, cuffed59 the journalist and fought a duel60 with him; he wished to fight a dozen duels61, make a noisy scandal, and then reduce to silence those chroniclers of slander62 and calumny63 by giving true light to the truth of deeds. Then he hesitated and repented64 of it. He tore up the letter he had begun and exercised over himself a pacifying65 control. Was he right to reply to malignity66, lies, and insinuations? Was it not better to shrug67 the shoulders, and let them talk and print, and smile at it all; laugh at the journalists and despise the journals? Would not Mabel Clarke, if she had been with him, have thought and decided68 so, the American girl without prejudices, free in ideas and sentiments, incapable69 of allowing herself to be conquered by conventionality and social hypocrisy70? Then he repressed and controlled himself. But in the depth of his spirit now and then arose a second reason for silence: with increasing bitterness he told himself that some and many of the things had the appearance of truth, and that some of them, moreover, were true. He loved Mabel Clarke sincerely, but it was undeniable that it was a magnificent match for whomsoever married her, even if he were rich, and he instead was absolutely poor. Mabel loved him loyally, but she was the daughter of an American merchant and he was the heir of a great name, a descendant of a great family. Love was there, but barter71 in one way or another had all the appearance of existing, and did exist. The rest, it is true, was the malignity, insinuation, and calumny of journalists; but the barter was undeniable, even sanctioned by ardent36 sympathy. What was the use of writing, of lawsuits72, of cuffing73 and provoking duels? It were better to be silent and pretend to smile and laugh; in fact, in a fury of pretence74 to smile and really laugh at all papers and journalists.
On reaching Rome during the first ten days of January he was consoled by a single thought against such infamies75; that Mabel on the other side might know little or nothing of them. Letters and telegrams continued to be always very affectionate: the marriage ought to take place in the middle of April, but John Clarke had been unwilling to fix a precise date. That exalted76 his heart and rendered him strong against everything that was printed about the nuptials77: gradually now the papers became silent. But at home, where his aggressors repaired more than ever, to ask whatever they could ask from a man immensely rich, even they in the middle of their discourses78, would let slip a phrase or an allusion79, that they had read something and had been scandalised by it: how could rascals80 on papers nowadays be allowed to insult such a gentleman as he was—Don Vittorio Lante, Prince of Santalena as they knew him to be?
At each of these allusions82 which wounded him, even in the midst of the adulations and flatteries of his interlocutors, he trembled and his face became clouded: he noted83 that everyone knew them and everyone had read them, that the calumnies84 had been spread broadcast in every set. Even at the club, now and then, someone with the most natural disingenuousness85 would ask him if he had read such and such a Berlin paper; someone else, more friendly, would tell him frankly86 how he had grieved to read an entre-filet of a Parisian paper. Sometimes he would smile or jest or shrug his shoulders, and sometimes he showed his secret anger. His well-balanced, always courteous mood changed; sometimes he treated petitioners87 badly and dismissed them brusquely. Such would leave annoyed, murmuring on the stairs that as a matter of fact the European papers had not been wrong to treat Don Vittorio Lante della Scala as a very noble and fashionable adventurer, but still an adventurer. He passed ten restless days in which only Mabel's letters and telegrams came to calm him a little.
But he experienced the deepest shock when complete packets of American papers arrived for him, voluminous, and all marked with red and blue pencil, since each contained something about his engagement, his marriage, his nobility, and his family. In long columns of small type were spread out the most unlikely stories, most offensive in their falseness; therein were inserted the most vulgar and grotesque things at his expense, or at the expense of Italy or Italians. It was a regular avalanche88 of fantastic information, of extravagant89 news, of lying declarations, of interviews invented purposely, of fictitious90 correspondence from Rome, and in addition to all this the most brutal91 comments on this capture of an American girl and her millions by another poor European gentleman, in order to carry away the girl and her money, and make her unhappy, to waste her money on other women as did all sprigs of European nobility, not only in Italy, but wherever they had managed to ensnare an American girl. Other marriages between rich American women and aristocratic but poor Europeans were quoted, with their often sad lot, conjugal92 separations, with their divorces, fortunes squandered93 in Europe, with their souls alienated94 from mother and father, and every American paper concluded that their daughters were mad and foolish again to attempt an experience which had always succeeded ill with them; that this miserable95 vanity of becoming the wife of an English Duke, a Hungarian magnate, a French marquis or Italian Prince should be suppressed. They should put it away: American women should wed81 American men and not throw away their fresh persons and abundant money on corrupt96 and cynical old Europe.
When he had read all this, Vittorio Lante was thoroughly97 unhappy. The papers were old, but there were some recent ones; the latest, those of ten or twelve days previously98, breathed an even more poisonous bitterness. By now he had learned to speak English much better, and understood it perfectly99; none of that perfidy100, none of that brutality101 escaped him, and all his moral sensibility grieved insupportably, all his nerves were on edge with spasms102, as he thought that Mabel Clarke, his beloved, his wife to be, had read those infamies from America, and had absorbed all that poison. He would have liked to telegraph her a hundred or a thousand words, to swear to her that they were all nauseating103 lies; but he repented of it and tore up the telegram, striving to reassure104 himself, as he thought that a direct and independent creature like Mabel Clarke, that a loyal and honest friend like the American girl would laugh at and despise the horrid105 things.
But by a mysterious coincidence, which made him secretly throb106 with anguish107, a week passed by without a letter or note, or a single word by telegram, reaching him from New York; Vittorio passed a fortnight of complete silence between anguish and despair. Instead, a very broad and voluminous letter, under cover and registered, reached him from New York, containing a long article about his indiscretions, dated from Rome, in which it was narrated108, with the most exaggerated particulars, how Miss Mabel Clarke's fiancé in Italy had seduced110 a cousin two or three years ago, how she had had a son by him, and how he had deserted111 her and her little one in a district of Lazio. Vittorio Lante, who in three weeks of silence had written Mabel Clarke four letters, and sent three telegrams without obtaining a reply, dying with impatience112 and anxiety, and hiding it from people, felt as if a dart113 were passing through his heart, from side to side, felt as if all his blood were ebbing114 away, and he remained exhausted115 and bloodless, unable to live or die.
So that morning at the end of February all those whom Giovanna, the faithful servant, gradually announced, since her master, pale and taciturn, consented to receive them with an automatic nod, found a man who received them with a silent and fleeting116 smile, with a rare word as he listened but scarcely replied to them, when they had finished expounding117 their ideas and propositions, as if he had understood nothing, and perhaps had heard nothing of them. For four or five days, with a great effort of the will, Vittorio kept up appearances, driving back his anguish to the depths of his heart, knowing that profound dissimulation118 is necessary in the world, and that the world must see little of our joy and none of our sorrow.
That morning there filed before him a traveller for a motor-car company who wished to make him buy three cars, of forty, sixty, and eighty horse-power respectively, to be paid for, naturally, after the marriage, but consignable a month previously with, of course, a fixed119 contract; a kind of tatterdemalion, all anointed, who offered him a Raphael, an authentic120 Raphael, for two hundred thousand lire, and who ended by asking for two francs to get something to eat; a gentleman of high society, who lived by the sale of old pictures, tapestry121, bronzes, and ivories, who took them from the antiquaries and re-sold them, gaining a little or a big commission, a friend who proposed increasing the prices, since Mabel Clarke was to pay, and that they should both divide the difference, proposing to him, in fact, that he should rob his future wife; a littérateur who came to seek from him the funds to launch a review in three languages, and who proposed to insert therein his own articles which Vittorio Lante should sign with his name; an agent of a bankrupt exchange, known to be unable to go on 'change, who proposed some mining affairs in Africa for John Clarke to take up, offering him a stiff commission so that he should transfer these uncertain shares to his father-in-law. And, more or less, in all demands, proposals, and requests which were made to him that morning, he perceived the intention to mock and cheat him, but still more he discovered in many of them the conception that he was a man of greed, who could for more or less money deceive his wife and father-in-law, cheat and rob them, like a sponger or society thief. Even more sorrowfully than at other times, he trembled when he noticed the expression of lack of esteem122 in which the people in his presence held him, people who dared in his own house to propose crooked123 bargains, equivocal business, as they offered him his own price!
"Am I, then, dishonoured124?" he thought, with a rush of bitterness. The morning passed and afternoon came: he was alone, and for the third or fourth time in three or four hours he asked Giovanna if letters or telegrams had arrived. It was an almost convulsive demand, which he had repeated constantly for three weeks, the only demand that showed another human being the state of convulsion in which he found himself. Nothing came, nor that morning either, except the newspapers, and a letter from Donna Maria Lante from Terni, which Giovanna had at once consigned125 to him. He composed his face, resumed the artless, jolly expression which had been his worldly mask, went to lunch at the club, and replied to three or four friends that the marriage would certainly take place in April. He jested with everyone; he held up his head before all, but he did not fail to observe that in questions, in compliments, in congratulations, there was a sense of hesitation126, as of a slight incredulity and a little irony127. The old Duke of Althan was very cold with him; Marco Fiore scarcely greeted him. Hurt and very nervous, he thought:
"Am I, then, dishonoured?"
He returned home: there were no letters or telegrams. He went out again to Calori's fencing school, and passed an hour of violent exercise, in which he allowed to escape whatever was insupportable in his pain; again he returned home, found nothing there, and went out to leave cards on two or three foreign ladies, whose acquaintance he had made the day before at a tea at the English Ambassadress'. He wandered through Rome, and for the third time, as if it were the way of the Cross, he repaired home, asked Giovanna from the speaking-tube if there were anything for him. She replied that there was a telephone message for him. Disillusioned128, more than ever pierced by anxiety, he went upstairs, took from the landing-place the little card on which Giovanna had written the telephone message, and read:
"A friend from America expects Don Vittorio Lante at the Grand Hotel at half-past four to take a cup of tea. Room Number Twenty-seven."
Vittorio trembled from head to foot, like a tree shaken by the wind; he drew out his watch convulsively. It wanted ten minutes to the appointment; he hurled129 himself into a cab, trembling and controlling himself, not noticing the streets he passed, and biting his lips at every obstacle his carriage met. On at last reaching the vestibule of the Grand Hotel, he threw the No. 27 to the porter. Refusing the lift, bounding up the stairs to the first floor, he knocked at twenty-seven, while his heart seemed to leap into his throat, suffocating130 him. From within the clear, harmonious131 voice of Mabel Clarke said to him in English:
"Come in!"
His face changed to a mortal pallor in her presence, as standing132 in the middle of the great, bright room, full of flowers, she offered him her hand; his too intense emotion filled his eyes with tears. He took the hand and kissed it, while his tears fell on it.
"Oh, dear, dear old boy," murmured Mabel, moved, looking at him affectionately and smiling.
He held the hand between his own, looked into his fiancée's eyes, and the cry, so often repressed, was from the depth of his heart:
"Mabel, I swear to you that I am an honest man."
"Do not swear, Vittorio," she replied at once, "I know it."
"Ah, they calumniated133 me, they defamed me, they dishonoured me. Mabel!" he exclaimed, falling into an arm-chair, "I swear to you that they are lies, infamous134 lies."
"I know," she replied with a softness in her firm, clear voice, "that they are lies."
"Ah, my consoler, my friend, my delight," he said, with a sigh, taking her hands, drawing her to him, and embracing her and kissing her on her forehead, and eyes, and cheeks.
She allowed herself to be embraced and kissed, but with a gracious movement she freed herself from him, and they sat side by side on one of the large sofas, beneath a great Musa plant.
"Do you still love me, Mabel?" he asked anxiously.
"I am very fond of you, dear," she replied tranquilly135.
"Why have you caused me such suffering, dear, dear Mabel, in not writing or telegraphing to me?"
"I was travelling to Rome," she explained.
"But when did you start?" he asked, already disquieted136.
"Three weeks ago, dear."
"Yes, elsewhere," she rejoined with a smile, but without further explanation.
"But why didn't you warn me, dear? Why make me pass terrible days here alone in Rome, not knowing how to vent23 my anger and sorrow? Ah, what days!"
"I left unexpectedly, Vittorio."
"Unexpectedly?"
"I decided to come to Rome in search of you on the spur of the moment. Mammy is on the other side, only Broughton accompanied me. I am incognito138, dear; no one knows that I am Mabel Clarke. I am called Miss Broughton."
She laughed shortly. He was still more disturbed, though he did not wish to show it. Confused and embarrassed, he looked at her, finding her more blooming than ever in her irresistible139 youth, in her face flourishing with beauty and health, in her slender figure dressed in white. Like a lover he exclaimed:
"Nothing matters now that you are here, Mabel, now that I am beside you, now that I press your dear hand, where is all my happiness."
She listened to him as formerly140, bowing her head with its rebellious141 chestnut142 locks a little, as if the ardent breath of those words were caressing143 her face and soul. Then, suddenly, she said simply:
"Shall we have tea, Vittorio?"
"Yes, dear," he replied, enchanted144 with her. Just as formerly, she went to a little table where everything was ready to make tea. She accomplished145 quickly and gracefully146 the little operations, while he watched her, enchanted by that beloved presence, and by her action and words, which reminded him of, and brought to life again, his dream of love in the Engadine. Suddenly all Vittorio's ecstasy147 dissolved; he was again disturbed by a violent uneasiness.
"Why have you come to Rome, Mabel?" he asked, somewhat authoritatively148.
"To learn the truth, Vittorio," she replied firmly, "and to tell it to you."
"To learn the truth, Mabel? Then you believed the infamies?"
"I did not believe them," she replied, shaking her head seriously.
"Did you believe that my mother was a martyr149 because of me, dying of hunger in her palace at Terni, mending silk stockings to let me live?" he cried, beside himself.
"I did not believe it. I went to Terni two days ago; I saw your mother, and I embraced her. She's a saint, and you are a good son."
"You went to Terni? Yet you say that you did not believe it, Mabel? How dare you say so? You also believed that I seduced Livia Lante; did you not?"
"I did not believe that; but I saw your cousin Livia four days ago at Velletri. I spoke150 to her, and she told me everything. You did not seduce109 her, and you never promised to marry her; she is sure that you do not love her."
"Oh, Mabel, Mabel, what shame for me! You went to seek the proofs of my honesty; what shame for me! You believed me a villain57!" Convulsed with grief, he hid his face in his hands.
She arose; took his hands away from his face, and forced him to look at her.
"Dear, dear, don't go on so, I beg of you. I believed nothing, but I wanted to know the truth. As for us in our country, we believe only with our eyes, so I decided to look for the truth."
"I have never lied to you, Mabel," he added, a little more calmly.
"No, never; you are a brave, loyal old boy."
"I continue to esteem and be fond of you."
"You continue to be mine."
"No," she replied clearly; "I do not continue to be yours."
"Do you take back your word?" he cried, amazed.
"It is you who will give me back yours," she said quietly.
"I? I?"
"You, dear. Because you are a man of honour, for no other reason, because you are a gentleman you will break off of your own accord our engagement, and we shall not marry."
Mabel spoke simply and firmly, without emotion. Moreover, her face had a seriousness and a gravity that he had never seen.
"Shall we not marry?" he exclaimed.
"No, Vittorio. We ought not to marry."
"Because of the calumnies and defamations, Mabel?"
"For none of those horrid things, my dear. We ought not to marry because we should make a mistake."
"A mistake?"
"Yes, a mistake, which later would make us so unhappy, you and I. Now, we ought not to be unhappy."
"But why? But why?" he asked, very agitatedly152.
"Because I am very rich and you are very poor."
"How horrible! How horrible!" he murmured gloomily, despondently153.
"Que faire, mon cher?" she exclaimed in French, shrugging her shoulders; "I have this money because father gave it to me, and I can't throw it away: can I? Money isn't such a bad thing. It isn't my fault if I have so much of it."
"Neither is it my fault if I am so poor," he rejoined sadly.
"Nor is it mine, dear Vittorio."
"You knew I was poor! I confessed it to you. I hid nothing from you."
"That is true," she declared at once. "I knew that: you told me loyally. I loved you and esteemed154 you for your loyalty155. Only I made a mistake."
"You made a mistake?"
"Yes; I made a mistake in believing that a rich woman could marry a poor man without being very unhappy afterwards. It is a great mistake. I beg your pardon, Vittorio, for my mistake. You are suffering for it, and I want you to pardon me."
"Ah, but you don't suffer; it doesn't matter at all to you," he exclaimed, very bitterly.
"You deceive yourself, Vittorio," she added, with some sweetness. "I suffer as I know how to, as I can. But it is better to suffer a brief, great sorrow, than to suffer for the whole of one's life."
"But why should we suffer together, Mabel?"
"Because of the money, dear."
"I never thought of that when I loved you."
"I know that," she replied, taking his hand and pressing it, "but people don't. You have been seeking for a large dowry for some years; you wanted to make a great marriage. People in America and Italy will never believe you to be disinterested156."
"But you who know and love me? You should see that I love and adore you only for yourself?"
"Even love wanes157 later, and not so very much later," she replied thoughtfully. "Your Italian love is so ardent and flattering; it sets very soon. Afterwards ... I should believe people; I should believe that you had married me for my money."
"Afterwards! I swear to you that there should be no afterwards for me."
"Swear not. All American women who have married Europeans have been disillusioned and betrayed."
"Others! Others!"
"They were also gentlemen, dear, who perhaps were in good faith. It is useless, we are too different; we have other souls and temperaments158. We have no luck with you Europeans, we poor, rich American women."
Obstinately159 she shook her head; then she resumed slowly.
"Where should we live? A part of the time in my country, in America. There they would deem you a dowry-hunter; it would be, it will be, impossible to make them believe the contrary. You would feel yourself despised. Then the life is so different, in an atmosphere of distrust the life would seem to you eccentric, grotesque, unbearable160; and if I forced you to stay there you would end by hating me."
"But with us? In this beautiful land?"
"Here I should suffer, dear Vittorio. To all you Italian men and women I should always be the American woman who had made a bargain, who had given her dollars and bought a title. Principessa di Santalena! Donna Mabel Lante della Scala! What a lot of people would laugh on hearing the name, and would hide their smiles, because I should have a palace and a park, and would give dinners and garden-parties; but behind my back, what sneers161 and criticisms, and evil speaking! At your first betrayal how all would curse you in my country, how all would say you were right in yours, and all this because I, poor little woman, have a dowry of fifty millions, and you fifteen hundred lire a month, on which your mother must live."
She ceased, as if breathless from having made too long a speech, she who was accustomed to short, clear phrases, like all her race.
"You never thought of this in the Engadine," he interrupted.
"No, I never thought of it. Up there everything was so beautiful and simple! Love was so pure and life so easy!"
"Ah, how could you have forgotten that time, Mabel?"
"I haven't forgotten it. Afterwards I saw that nothing is simple, nothing easy—neither life, nor love, nor happiness—nothing, when there is this terrible, powerful thing, money."
"What, then, do you want from me? What have you come to seek from me?" he asked, half angrily and half sadly.
"For you to give me a proof of what you are by your birth, by your past, by your character; for you to free me from the promise of engagement, frankly and spontaneously."
"You could. If you were a vile162 calculator, if you were a sordid163, interested man you could. You have my word, and my mother's; you have my father's; you have my letters and my telegrams; you could force me to marry you."
She looked him in the eyes fixedly164. He fixed hers unhesitatingly, without a tremble, and said to her in a loud voice:
"Miss Mabel Clarke, I release you and your parents from the engagement; I hold at your disposal your letters and telegrams."
Mabel Clarke grew pale, and then blushed with a rush of blood to her beautiful face; she offered her hand to Vittorio Lante.
"I knew it, darling! I am very fond of you, and shall always be fond of you."
Silent, impassive, he had performed his sacrifice in the name of his honour; but the heroic act had consumed him. There was a long silence between them.
"I shall start back to-morrow," she said, in a low voice.
"Ah, to-morrow!" he repeated, as if he did not quite understand.
"Will you accompany me to Naples, where I shall embark2, dear?" she asked him affectionately, but with a veil of sadness in her voice.
"I would rather not," he murmured weakly.
"You must be stronger, Vittorio."
"I have been strong," he replied, opening his arms. "You must not ask more from me."
"You must not suffer, darling."
"I love you and suffer in loving you, Mabel," he said, simply and sadly.
"I hope that will soon end."
"Eh, not so soon, not so soon," he added, with melancholy165 and bitterness.
"You will return to your mother, won't you?"
"Later on I shall go. I must go there to explain everything," he murmured.
Mabel, after having conquered him, experienced an ever broader sympathy, an ever greater pity for him. Every word in which he vainly poured forth166 his sorrow, the undoing167, the delusion168 of all his hopes, struck her good and loyal heart more than all the cries of revolt which had rushed from his lips. After having conquered him, after being freed, she became his friend, his sister, loving and sad, suffering in seeing him suffer, desiring that he should suffer no more. But the man who had given all his measure, who had accomplished his great act of renunciation, could no longer be consoled by her; she had lost the sentimental169 power of comforting him. But she tried again:
"Your mother expects you, Vittorio."
"Did you tell her everything?" he asked in a weak, colourless voice.
"Yes, I told her."
"Poor mamma," he murmured to himself.
"Dear, dear Vittorio, start a new life within and without yourself! Sell the old palace and the old park. Pay your debts. Take your mother away with you, and with what is left try some undertaking170, create an industry, some work for yourself and others," she said energetically.
"I should require another soul, and another heart," he replied gloomily, with lowered eyes.
"Change your country and your surroundings," she suggested energetically, as if she wished to inject some will into him.
"Perhaps I ought to come to America?" he asked, with a pale, ironical smile.
"Why not? John Clarke would do everything for you."
But suddenly she bit her lips, as she saw Vittorio's contracted face become disturbed with pallor, as if under an access of anger and grief.
"Oh, thanks!" he said, with deep irony. "One thing only John Clarke could do for me, and that I have renounced172. Must I come to America like a wretched seeker after work, like an emigrant173? Miss Mabel, we shall separate without your understanding me."
"Would you like me to be there, Miss Mabel, when you marry the American, some American, of your race and country?" he asked, with a sarcastic176 smile.
"Oh, this will only happen much later," she murmured, "very much later."
"But it will happen, Miss Mabel," he insisted bitterly.
"I believe so," she said simply; "not now, not for a year. Even later."
"Why should you wait, miss?" he asked sadly, with ever greater sarcasm.
"To forget you, dear," she replied frankly.
He trembled, but restrained himself.
"You think us American women heartless, Vittorio. You will never understand us."
Worn down, he again made a vague gesture of excuse.
"On the contrary, Vittorio, I believe you will marry Livia Lante, much sooner than I shall marry an American."
"We are very poor, Livia and I. One can endure poverty when one is in love. I do not love Livia."
"Later solitude and boredom178 will oppress you. She is sweet and gracious. She will beautify your life."
"I could never endure poverty but on one condition, Mabel," he exclaimed suddenly, invaded by a new exaltation.
"Which?"
"With you, Mabel, with you! Ah, if only you were a poor woman with a halfpenny for a dowry, without a dress to your back, how I would dream of taking you, of carrying you away with me, to work for you, my companion, my spouse179, my love, to look for work and riches for you, but with you and for you!"
Pale, absorbed, she listened to him. He drew near to her, took her hands, and spoke face to face.
"Ah, Mabel, come away, come away with me, far-away, renounce171 your millions, renounce all your money; say to your father that you don't want a farthing, that Vittorio Lante, your husband, wishes to work and create with you and for you life and riches."
With closed eyes she vacillated in his arms, vacillated beneath the wave of that enveloping180 passion.
"Mabel, you alone can make of me another man, with another soul, with another heart! Mabel, remember, remember our dreams of love in the Engadine, remember that you consented to love me up there; you did love me, you have been my beloved, you can't forget! Change yourself, change me; be another woman, give yourself to love, as I let myself be taken in the great battle for you! Change yourself, as I change myself! Deny not the arguments of love; be a woman as other women, as I ask to be a man in every strife181 however cruel. Mabel, Mabel, change yourself."
Holding her in his arms, a breath of scorching182 words wrapped the girl as in a fire of flame. For the first time Vittorio Lante saw on that face, so dazzling with youth and beauty, a lost expression of love and sorrow. Still, she was made for victory; she was the stronger. Tearing herself free, she composed her face, and replied:
"Vittorio, it is impossible."
"Impossible?"
"It is true," he replied, coldly and sadly. "The soul never changes, not even for love."
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1
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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2
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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4
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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sumptuousness
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| 奢侈，豪华 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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8
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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9
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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10
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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11
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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14
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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15
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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16
repayment
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| n.偿还，偿还款；报酬 | |
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17
kennels
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| n.主人外出时的小动物寄养处，养狗场；狗窝( kennel的名词复数 )；养狗场 | |
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18
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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19
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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20
vendors
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| n.摊贩( vendor的名词复数 )；小贩；（房屋等的）卖主；卖方 | |
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21
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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22
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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23
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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24
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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25
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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26
unemployed
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| adj.失业的，没有工作的；未动用的，闲置的 | |
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27
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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28
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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29
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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30
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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31
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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32
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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33
benevolently
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| adv.仁慈地，行善地 | |
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34
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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35
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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36
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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37
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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38
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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39
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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40
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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41
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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42
annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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43
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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44
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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45
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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46
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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47
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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48
complicating
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| 使复杂化( complicate的现在分词 ) | |
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49
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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50
trenchant
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| adj.尖刻的，清晰的 | |
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51
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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52
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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53
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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54
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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55
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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56
villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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57
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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58
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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59
cuffed
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| v.掌打，拳打( cuff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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61
duels
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| n.两男子的决斗( duel的名词复数 )；竞争，斗争 | |
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62
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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63
calumny
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| n.诽谤，污蔑，中伤 | |
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64
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
pacifying
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的现在分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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66
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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67
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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68
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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69
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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70
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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71
barter
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| n.物物交换，以货易货，实物交易 | |
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72
lawsuits
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| n.诉讼( lawsuit的名词复数 ) | |
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73
cuffing
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| v.掌打，拳打( cuff的现在分词 )；袖口状白血球聚集 | |
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74
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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75
infamies
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| n.声名狼藉( infamy的名词复数 )；臭名；丑恶；恶行 | |
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76
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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77
nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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78
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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79
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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80
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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81
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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82
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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83
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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84
calumnies
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| n.诬蔑，诽谤，中伤（的话）( calumny的名词复数 ) | |
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85
disingenuousness
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86
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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87
petitioners
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| n.请求人，请愿人( petitioner的名词复数 )；离婚案原告 | |
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88
avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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89
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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90
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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91
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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92
conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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93
squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
alienated
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| adj.感到孤独的，不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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95
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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96
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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97
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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98
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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99
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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100
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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101
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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102
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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103
nauseating
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| adj.令人恶心的，使人厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的现在分词 ) | |
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104
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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105
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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106
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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107
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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108
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
seduce
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| vt.勾引，诱奸，诱惑，引诱 | |
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110
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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111
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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112
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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113
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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114
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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115
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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116
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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117
expounding
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的现在分词 ) | |
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118
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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119
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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120
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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121
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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122
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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123
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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124
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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125
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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126
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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127
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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128
disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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129
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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130
suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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131
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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132
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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133
calumniated
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| v.诽谤，中伤( calumniate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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135
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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136
disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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138
incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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139
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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140
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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141
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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142
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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143
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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144
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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145
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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146
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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147
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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148
authoritatively
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| 命令式地，有权威地，可信地 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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150
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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151
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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152
agitatedly
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| 动摇，兴奋； 勃然 | |
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153
despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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154
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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155
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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156
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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157
wanes
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| v.衰落( wane的第三人称单数 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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158
temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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159
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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160
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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161
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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162
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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163
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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164
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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165
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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166
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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167
undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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168
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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169
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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170
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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171
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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172
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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173
emigrant
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| adj.移居的，移民的；n.移居外国的人，移民 | |
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174
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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175
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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176
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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177
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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178
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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179
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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180
enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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181
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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182
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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183
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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